Prism
by Isskar
Summary: Five faces of Inara: whore, companion, child, healer, woman.


I.

Sometimes she thinks it would be nice to be a whore; to lie on her back and spread her legs and not to have to worry about pouring tea. Sometimes she imagines that she'll ask Jayne what the going rate would be for her body in a back alley on one of the border worlds they frequent. Sometimes she fantasizes about what would happen if she undercut that price. Late at night, she wears her thinnest robe and sits in the kitchen. Her feet get cold but that's an important part of this all. She thinks about his rough hands and the scrape of three day old whiskers on the underside of her breast. She walks back to her shuttle on trembling legs and sleeps until noon the next day. She thinks that if she was a whore she could have bad days. That she could say no, she doesn't like bao, is there any soup? That she wouldn't have to put her make-up on before even Kaylee could come into her shuttle. She thinks that it would make her honest again. That it would make _him _respect her. Sometimes the urge to go back to the Heart of Gold is too much to bear so she packs and packs all night long. Then in the morning, after breakfast, she returns everything to its rightful place.

II.

The shuttle was bare and empty. Robbed of its red velvet hangings, its warmth, its ridiculous bobbles that had no place on a ship that got knocked around as much as _Serenity_.

"Well, that's the last of it then."

"Yes, thank you."

"I'll have your security deposit wired to your account."

"That's not necessary, I know how tight money is."

"Business is business."

"Yes. I suppose it is."

Her hand reaches out and trails down the side of his face. Her body ready to shift its balance toward his.

"Don't."

His hand wraps around her wrist and pulls it away. Her body does shift then, her palms press against his chest. Through heavy shirt and jacket they don't feel the heat of his body and this above all else fills her eyes with tears.

"Why not?"

His hands cover her own and finally she can feel the heat of him. She wants to laugh so she sobs. His hands pull hers from him. The brief heat gone. He takes a step back.

"You'd still leave, and then I wouldn't know why you did it. I could never be sure…I don't want to not know…I couldn't stand not knowing…so just don't."

Suddenly training returns. Grace and poise and ice and in that moment he forgets why he adores her.

"Goodbye Malcolm. I wish you well."

She turns and walks away towards the shuttle door. Back ramrod straight. Her hand though, reaching towards the handle shakes violently and that's when he remembers.

"Inara!"

She stops. He goes to her and pulls her around to face him. Her eyes are as hard as sharp stones but her whole body is trembling.

She feels his breath across her forehead. Then his lips. Again. Again. Again.

He speaks his words against her skin before pulling away for the last time.

"I wanted you to know that I love the way you laugh."

Her eyes are soft now. She nods her head once and then she is gone.

III.

She knew a good man once. Not a nice man, or a rich man, or a strong man, or a perfect man. He was a good man, and sometimes that's all that matters. He had long hair and a hawk's nose and he was tall and he was loud when he wanted to be, who cares what other people think. But that was the problem. Inara cared what other people thought. Companions, even ones only in training, care what other people think. That is why their skin is always soft and their hair always smooth, their nails always clean and their lips always glossy. He worked in the House, he was the one who fixed your cortex connection by plugging your terminal back in after you'd been trying to fix it for half and hour. He was the one who played checkers with the littlest of the sisters when they first arrived and were homesick. He was the one who smiled and didn't say anything when they grew familiar with the House and their position in it and didn't need him and his checkers anymore.

She used to watch him. Everywhere he went her eyes would follow him. He noticed, he must have, but as always he knew what was to be done and what was not. He fixed the cortex and played checkers with little girls. He did not acknowledge that Inara Serra was in love with him. He did not comment when her cortex disconnected three times the afternoon the House Priestess was out. He did not answer his door late at night when the soft knock came. He said nothing the wet morning he was returning from an errand to find her waiting at the side entrance for him; he simply held his empty wallet open towards her in the rain and walked by her into the House when she lowered her eyes. It was this final stoicism that broke her heart

Thinking back on those days now, she is filled with shame. She did not conduct herself in a manner becoming of a Companion. She should thank him though. Despite the hours of training and practice, it was he who finally made her a true Companion. He was the one who made her realize that without the means, you can never have what you really want.

So here she is; in a shuttle rented for one third less the asking price and her reputation. The reputation that conceals a little, checker playing girl who sends half her fee from every client to a joint account on Sihnon. One day she will go back to the ocean of light and the house he now owns. One day, when she's finished. When she is sure that they have enough. Enough not to be bothered by old friends. Enough so that he can be as loud as he wants to and she won't have to care what other people think.

IV.

It had not gone smooth. It never goes smooth, but that was the day they all realized how not smooth it could actually get. She doesn't know how it happened and she doesn't care. All she knows is that Wash is dead. She lies with Zoe on top of the soft bunk that had once been called _theirs_ but was now only _hers_,arms wrapped around her.

She does know what to do. She does. But not for Zoe. Pleasure will not erase this pain. She says nothing, not because she has no words of comfort or understanding, but because she does, yet knows that there is no comfort and no understanding. There is only her presence. Inara knows crying alone, sobs tearing from your body, hoping that someone will hear you and make you tell them what's wrong.

There are no war stories to stay up all night long getting drunk to, though walking past Mal on the way to _her_ bunk, Inara knows that he has never tried so hard before. Book is for Sundays and for when the time comes to talk about the hole in her chest where her heart used to be; Kaylee, for smiling and stories of good old days when the time comes to pretend that she can talk about him again. Simon is for River and for telling her that she really couldn't have held the blood in his body with her bare hands. Jayne is for weightlifting. This all will help, but not now.

Inara is too slender and her hair not kinky enough; but if Zoe closes her eyes tight enough, it is hers mother's arms that cradle her. She lies here then, Zoe's face pressed against her shoulder, holding her and doing nothing but breathing. She knows that it will not help, but she also knows that Zoe will look back and tell herself that it did.

V.

The first thrust was gentler than she expected. Usually these types of men are so long out in the black that preparation and gentleness are not their top priorities in situations such as these, and to her knowledge his ship had only docked this morning. Preparation there had been though; rough, calloused fingers trailing along the inside of her thighs, teasing light over her moist skin. Then pressure, the best kind, firm and assured and she had actually gasped. He had laughed, a happy sound, then froze.

"Don't fake. I don't need that."

She half-smiled and began unbuttoning his shirt. She licked his chest, tasting soap and too clean skin. He had pulled her dress from her shoulders and caught it before it could fall on the dusty floor, eventually laying it over the back of the chair. Her skin was cool but his was warm and then he was pressed against her so it didn't matter what she alone felt because now she was both of them. She could tell very clearly where her body ended and where his began, but then she ended and he began all in the same place. And it was gentler than she expected.

One hand held him above her; the other was tangled in her hair. His tongue ran up her neck to behind her ear and he was _inside_ her. Not just in her body but inside _her_.

"I'm gonna…can't stop…I mean I'm sorry I can't..."

And she smiled because it really was ok

V. (remix)

In the House on Sihnon they tell you that the physical does not matter. And it doesn't. Unless he's big and you're dry. Look for beauty in everything; that was the important lesson. Focus on that single red hair on the brown head, not on the rank, unwashed smell of his body. Strive to perceive the inner light of every person who crosses your path. Men who have to pay for sex have no inner light, often outer light in spades, but nothing on the inside. He is pounding into her harder now and it's becoming difficult to let her mind wander. Heat friction and his belt buckle digging into her hip because he didn't undress. After all, you do not need to be naked to have sex. His rhythm is failing; the dirty hand on her breast squeezes too tight through her satin bodice. One…twothree…four. Five. And it's over. His face rests against the crook of her neck for just a moment, his body still and calm. She thinks that maybe there is a slight flicker deep inside, but knows that she's just teasing herself. He pushes clumsily to his feet and she too rises because she is a Companion and she is dignified. She smoothes her skirt back over bruised hips and can feel the liquid heat rush out of her.

"We're agreed then?"

"That we are Ambassador," his florid bow mocking, "one third less my asking price."


End file.
